Suffice it to say, #3 didn’t pan out. Oh, but we are obsessed with body parts in this house. We have naked dance parties after bath-time (and by we, I mean those of us that are under 3 feet tall). Ella has, in fact, discovered that her little brother has something she doesn’t. And her natural reaction, initially, was to want it too. The first time I explained to her that this little part that looked really cool and different belonged to him and only him and that no, she couldn’t take it (more importantly, it’s, um, attached) and that no, she couldn’t grow one for herself, there was an all out crumple-to-the-floor meltdown about wanting her own “peanut.” She begged for a peanut for a solid 20 minutes.

This is definitely one for the baby book.

{Cue Ella’s first date in 14 years}: “Hi Ella’s date ______, nice to meet you. Ya’ll have fun at the movies. Oh Bug, you know what I was just thinking about earlier today…? Remember that time when you were helping mommy bathe Milo and you started crying because you wanted your own peanut? Gosh, you were so cute.”

I. Can’t. Wait.

Or, “What would normal people do?”

This has become my mantra over the last several months. But first I have an announcement: I’m not normal. (Shocker, I know). But really, who is? So for me, maybe this mantra should go one step further and say, “what would someone who isn’t emetophobic do?”

Before I go any further, let me just preface this by saying that this is not a “hooray for me” post. I’m far from celebrating nor do I want to give the appearance that I’ve got my shit together. We all- every single one of us- have crap to deal with. We have our vices. We have weaknesses and sore spots and bruises and scabbed over injuries. And while we come to understand that the pain will eventually subside, we also know that the scars sometimes last forever. The anxiety can feel like it will last forever too. I know for a fact that there are so many people who struggle with anxiety and phobias, but would never speak out about it for fear of being labeled a freak or a weirdo. This has been my struggle. It’s tempting to want to take that fear and make it your identity and let it define you for the rest of your life. Maybe for some, it’s anxiety over work. For others, it’s a fear of never measuring up. For me, it’s this.

So what would a normal person do? (And by normal, I mean someone who doesn’t fear their own body). In essence, they just do life, one day at a time, like everyone else. They don’t over-think things. They don’t obsess about what they’re eating and whether it could potentially make them sick. They don’t avoid public transportation, or refuse to go places where they might be exposed to other people being sick. They ride rollercoasters at amusement parks. They get pregnant and have babies. When those babies get a little older and get the stomach flu, they sit with them and wipe their faces and tell them that they’re going to be okay.

I have to remind myself more often than I would like, that I am, in fact, going to be okay. And not only that I’m going to be okay. I am okay. Better than okay. Even after five years of struggling with the anxiety associated with emetophobia and six-plus months of intense cognitive behavioral therapy, I still have many moments throughout the day when I have to ask myself, “what would a normal person do?” The answer for me is actually found asking that one simple question. Because I know that if I want to be normal (unafraid of throwing up), then I have to act normal. Some days, it means I eat chicken without asking whether it’s cooked thoroughly. Or that I let someone else drive the car and be a passenger, forfeiting my illusionary sense of control and risking the (unlikely) chance I will get car-sick. Other days, it will just mean being a mommy- being coughed and puked on (yep, it happened and I lived to tell about it), making multiple trips to the doctor, and purposefully doing things outside what I consider to be my comfort zone for the sake of being present with my kids as they grow up. There are days when I’m still scared of throwing up. But the days that I choose to move past the “what ifs” and focus on the “here and nows” are trumping the days I choose not to.

And for now, that’s all that matters.

In case you didn’t know this about me, I take great delight in bathroom and frat-boy humor. I have the mind (and therefore, the maturity, at times) of a 7th grader. I quote lines from movies like Austin Powers and Anchorman on a fairly regular basis and I’m often the one reminding everyone around the restaurant table to add the words “in bed,” to the end of the proverb in the fortune cookie. (Really, it makes it taste better, I think). As a matter of fact, Jake and I ordered Chinese from our favorite take-out spot the other night after Ella’s party and they gave us four fortune cookies (maybe they assumed by the amount of food we ordered that there should be 4 people partaking but actually, we just love ourselves some noodles and fried rice). We opened three of them, but unfortunately, they said truly profound things like, “you love the color white..” or “happy is the man with much toilet paper..” The point is, they weren’t worth reading, nor adding on the fun ending. I saved the other fortune cookie for later but then forgot all about it until today.

Today, I was about to toss the entire cookie, unopened, in the trash can when I decided I should at least open it up to see what wise words awaited me today. And there it was, probably one of the most coherent sayings I’ve ever read post egg-roll: “Strong and healthy is the individual who asks for help when he needs it.”

It’s probably nothing more than a coincidence, but I did find it to be very timely on a day I consider a victory if I keep my head above water. Toys and leftover party decorations are strewn across the floor and boxes are waiting to be packed in preparation to move in less than a month. (P.S. I HATE clutter). Ella decided to decorate my favorite pair of pants with a bright orange crayon. I’m also slightly jarred by the realization that I’m still waiting to cross that threshold from “adjusting” to life with two kids to actually “managing” life with two kids. (I’m not sure I’ll ever master it). Milo still has trouble taking a bottle and prefers me and only me. My parents have just moved back in town which, overall, is a good thing, but I’m finding that it implies a somewhat delicate balancing act between Kristin the wife, Kristin the mommy, and Kristin the daughter. Lots of change happening in a short amount of time. Lots of change happening for someone who doesn’t like change. So if it’s true that God shows up disguised as our every-day lives, then perhaps he was also tucked very neatly inside the fortune cookie I almost threw away, and the reminder was very simple: stop trying to be strong for everyone. Stop being sorry that you can’t do it all. Let go, just a little bit, and you’ll be better for it.

So later this afternoon, I made an executive decision: I called my sitter and asked her if she was available to take both the kids tomorrow for me. I’m not sure at what point in my life I decided that strength meant never asking for help, but I do know that being a mother is proving to be the most effective way of breaking that mentality. So tomorrow, help is coming in the form of a manicure/pedicure and maybe even a nice, long nap, if I’m lucky.

I was just telling a friend tonight how it hasn’t totally sunk in yet that I’m the mother of a pre-schooler. She’s certainly not a baby anymore (in the literal sense of the word, because let’s face it, she’ll always be my baby) but sometime in the last 6 months- when I basically blinked- she crossed that threshold from toddler to a precocious pre-schooler. She is starting to speak in complete sentences on a fairly regular basis now, holding conversations with me that actually make sense (!) and stepping gracefully into the role of proud big sister (most days, at least). She laughs at jokes, knows her ABC’s and will sing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star if you ask her to, but when we’re in the car, she prefers Adele’s “Rollin’ In the Deep,” “Hey Soul Sister” or anything by the British rock band Athlete. Her favorite colors are green and pink. I refer to her as my little social butterfly, preferring to be right in the middle of what’s happening when it’s happening. She loves to love, and this is probably one of my most favorite of her qualities. Last week, I left to go to the store and when I started to walk out the door, she turned around and said, “Wuv you Mommy.”

And there’s that heartbreak again. How could I ever love anything more? How is it that a ball of 6 lbs 15 oz could show me the capacity with which I’m able to love and yet expose the worst of my weaknesses? Come to find out, parenthood exists within these dichotomies. The reality is that it took her a relatively short journey to become my daughter- 41 weeks, to be exact. But it will take me the rest of my life to become her mother, to grow into this role. It’s constantly changing and evolving, often requiring “just a little more” when I feel I have nothing left to give.

But talk about a return on the investment.

Hundreds upon hundreds of memories turn those long days of “nothing left” into moments of realizing I have more than I could have ever asked for. And to add to those memories tomorrow morning will be chocolate chip pancakes and a rousing version of “Happy Birthday” to my sleepy 2 year old- my lucky #13 baby girl.

This picture was taken June 7th 2010. (Yes, I just posted a picture of my pee stick- deal with it). I called Jake- who happened to be overseas in London at the time- but when I couldn’t reach him, I texted him a picture of the test, to which he eventually said ” I don’t really see a line..”. {insert Debbie Downer them song here}. But I couldn’t fault him. Most guys don’t have “line eyes” like we women do. So then I texted him this picture:

Of course, then he believed me. I guess something about seeing the word spelled out across the test strip made it more real, even for me. And so we learned that our family of three was going to become a family of four. Life changes and evolves. It’s a continual rollercoaster that begs the question: do we clench our teeth and white-knuckle the safety bar? Or do we let go, throw our hands up in the air and enjoy the ride?

June 7th 2011: my baby boy who is 2 days shy of 4 months, and my big baby girl, who is 6 days shy of turning 2.

Life is good.

Nevermind that watching Yo Gabba Gabba is like watching a 20 minute acid trip- Ella is obsessed with them. So naturally, this year’s birthday party theme is “Yo Ella-Ella!”, complete with balloons, plates, napkins and table-cloths in the various characters’ colors. And because I always jump at the chance to do anything crafty, I decided that for as long as I’m physically able to, I want to make my kids’ birthday cakes each year. This was Ella’s ladybug cake last year:

It was so much fun to make, and relatively easy, all things considered. On the flip side, this year’s cake is turning out to be quite the endeavor. Three tiers, iced with buttercream and fondant and Foofa’s head sprouting out of the top. For those of you without kids under the age of ten (or alternately, those who have been living in a cave for the last 4 years) meet Foofa:

In case you’re wondering, I have not been able to locate an onion/shallot shaped baking pan for Foofa’s head. It would have been much easier to do a Plex head, or even a Brobee head, but Foofa is her favorite, so Foofa it is. After a little brainstorming, I think I have some ideas of how to make it work.

I sheepishly told Jake how much I had spent on all the various pans, cutters, fondant, icing and other doo-dads and I’m sure he wondered why I didn’t just order a cake instead. (I’m beginning to wonder that myself). But every artist knows that creativity trumps practicality. It’s not convenient. It’s not cheap. Some might go as far as to say it’s not even smart. After all, I’m afraid I will have a very disappointed little girl on my hands should this cake fall apart. But I’ve paid my due to Michael’s and Baker’s Kitchen and told myself I’m investing in memories (yes, I was grasping at straws after the total was rung up). But really, it’s a small price to pay to see her face light up. I’m sure of this.

So long as Foofa’s head is even remotely recognizable, this will not be a failure. The perfectionist in me may have to take a back seat if only for the the sake of having something that’s at least edible, but I have high hopes that what I see in my head will be what I see on my kitchen counter come Friday afternoon.

So I now have in my possession:

1 roll of parchment paper
several plastic gloves
1 5 lb bucket of Fondant
1 3 lb bucket of buttercream icing (YUMS)
2 soft gel pastes in light pink and black

Square and Round cake pans:

Various fondant cutters, smoothers, and embellishments:

Fondant in various colors for accents:

And last but not least, these colorful puff balls. Confession: I’m not entirely sure what these will be used for. What can I say, it was an impulse buy.

Wish me luck!

When Ella first started calling me “momma,” my heart broke into a tiny thousand pieces and I felt like I just couldn’t love her more.

But if I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard my name in the last week…well, I’d have myself a jar full of nickels, I guess. I never thought I would get tired of hearing that sweet little voice asking for me, wanting me, needing me. But then that sweet little voice got sassy. Those vocal chords grew stronger and seemingly overnight, developed the ability to say {read: shriek, yell, whine} my name a full octave and several decibels higher than before. We’ve recently reached a stage where the whining is incessant. And it’s not because little Miss doesn’t know how to communicate well and tell me what she wants. She’s just whining because she can and also, I suspect, because she knows it gets under my skin.

Some friends of ours told us that this is a stage that lasts until she goes away to college. They said that she may not whine about the same things (I should hope not), but she will probably always maintain a variance of that sing-songy whimper when she wants or needs something, or alternately, has been told that she can’t have said thing. They told us this and then they both laughed (their daughter is now away in college, so I guess they’ve earned the right to), but I’ll be honest- I’m not worried about her making it to college. My nerves are so shot, there are days I wonder if she’ll make it to her second birthday.

All joking aside, the whining is truly one of my biggest pet peeves (next to grammatical errors and slow left lane drivers). But I guess until some genius develops a mute button for our kiddos, I’m going to just have to deal. And invest in some good bottles of wine. Ella whine = Mommy wine.

And this little pig cried “weeeeee weeeee weeeeee” every time she has to make dinner…

I grew up as a meat-and-potatoes kinda girl. While I don’t make red meat (or any meat) the focal point of my menu planning, I do enjoy a good filet from time to time and will usually make chicken or fish a couple of times a month.

My hubby, on the other hand, decided he was going to try a vegetarian diet starting in January 2010 and he hasn’t looked back since. I’ll admit that menu planning got a little bit more complicated, but we still made it work. Then, my daughter went from eating every kind of baby-food I offered her to joining the ranks of picky toddlers everywhere and has basically survived off of Kraft Mac-n-Cheese, cheese, bread and whole grain waffles. I wanted to pull my hair out. I do understand (but unfortunately, don’t always tolerate) my daughter’s willfullness. I know that when she turns up her nose at the things I put on her plate, I can ultimately toss her a multi-vitamin and feel that we’ve still got some of our bases covered. However, in the last month, my hubby decided he was going to pull out all stops and go vegan. Now I’ve gone from pulling out my hair to having an annoying eye twitch. Patches of bald skin and compulsive winking. Awesome.

I still find myself thinking, no dairy? Really? Nothing with milk in it? No butter? No *gasp* cheese?? I suppose when desperate times call for desperate measures, one could always take a face-plant in their backyard and go to town. You’re probably never out of options, in that sense. But in all seriousness, I totally understand the reasons he’s doing it and I want to be supportive of it. For him, it’s not about making a statement or belittling others who choose something different, nor is it a decision based on strong emotions after watching something like Food, Inc. (That being said, I have refused to watch that movie because I know full well that my weak stomach would never be able to look at meat the same way and as of right now, I still opt for the “ignorance is bliss” motto). He just feels that it’s the healthiest way to eat. And I can’t really argue with him about that (I say, as I research a bourbon demi-glaze for a filet I plan to grill tonight). There have been plenty of times in the last several months that I find myself thinking that I could probably do just fine (if not great) on a vegetarian diet, but I’m just not in any big hurry to get there and there is absolutely no pressure to join him “on the other side.” So on the rare occasions I still crave a good steak or some barbecued chicken, I indulge myself and don’t think twice about it. In time, I will probably show full-time love to the vegetables. I just don’t think I could ever go all-out vegan. No judgment here. I just love me some cheese.

But that still leaves the train-wreck that is my weekly menu planning and cooking. I don’t have time to make two different meals every night, especially with a screaming four month-old who inevitably needs to nurse when I have a pot of pasta boiling over on the stove and an overly helpful toddler who wants to have a hand in everything I do in the kitchen. I continue to put new food in front of Ella, sometimes with her usual staples (cheese, pasta), just so I know she will eat something that evening and yet a good portion of what I put on her plate still goes to waste. I know she’s not unique in that way. I’m just looking for a simple, easy way to do dinners for 1 eats-anything-that’s-put-in-front-of-her adult (that would be me), 1 eats-anything-that-doesn’t-have-a-face-or-whose-mother-didn’t-have-a-face adult (darling hubby) and 1 über picky 2 year-old who thinks food is much funnier on the floor than in her stomach. Thank God Milo is still breastfeeding. No guess-work there. (Just exhaustion).

I’ll take any helpful advice, recipes, cookbook recommendations and/or words of consolation.

“Hey! How was your– STOP!! Don’t touch that- yucky! Okay, sorry. So you had a good time?

. . . . . . .

“Yeah, we’re gonna be there for a week in September and– No, Mommy already said we’re not going to the playground right now…the rates in Myrtle are so much better after Labor Day and it’s much less— HEY! Stop sitting on him- he can’t breathe!!”

. . . . . . .

“Hi, I’d like to place an order for delivery please? Yes- I’ll have one large– omigod-Jake-she-just-ran-out-on-the-deck!– pepperoni and mushroom pizza- wait, no! get in here right now, young lady. I’m so sorry. Yes, light on the sauce. Do you want to go to timeout? A side of cheesy bread. Thanks.”

. . . . . . .

And so for obvious reasons, texting is my main method of communication these days, though that’s not without it’s flubs as well. But at least other people can get a good laugh at your expense.

It’s akin to being a kid and seeing one of your teachers when you’re out shopping (but without the memories of cold hard steel up your lady biz). I remember running into my second grade teacher at the grocery store one day and I was awestruck. Teachers actually left school? They had to buy groceries too?? What did they eat? Did that mean they went to movies too? Maybe they actually had lives other than flashcards and spelling tests and report cards. So that day in Kroger, I was jarred not only by the fact that had I just run into a man who had seen parts of me that my husband hasn’t even seen (nor does he want to), but also that he was out and about like a normal guy. Without the white coat and scrubs and without all the questions about my cervix. And his cart wasn’t, in fact, full of speculums and KY-Jelly like I assumed it would be. (I know because I stole a quick glance). Apparently, he likes watermelon and cheese and cereal. I’m guessing he might even like to go to Target and buy senseless crap because, well, it’s Target. He, too, has a life outside of fundal measurements and stirrups and commanding women to push.

So how does one end an awkward run-in like this? “See you, uh, at my next pap smear…?” Probably not. Suffice it to say, I was relieved when he ended it for me with a simple, “enjoy those babies.”

Of course. The two culminations of the numerous bodily violations that occurred in suite 500 of our hospital were now sitting at home waiting for me. And that, is a good feeling.